Wolf in Sheep's Clothing
by Freakypet
Summary: BAMF!John - Dressed in his grandpa jumpers, nice guy persona, no-one sees John for anything other than nice local GP. Or do they?


I have always loved the idea of John being a total BAMF! A little dark, a little murky - I mean look at him hiding that packed little body under those jumpers. Just screams BAMF doesn't it!

So this weekend, I had a writing spurt as I was trying to whip my lazy ass muse into helping me finish my Spuffy multi chapter - instead I was compelled to write this. I managed to get all the way through to the last chapter before my muse threw a massive tantie and quit! So the end is really rough as I dragged my limp, exhausted butt through the last few bits. Hate the ending with a passion but I had to get it posted so that now I can beg my muse to forgive me and help me finish Before The Storm Comes - maybe I'll send her flowers, chocolates and some Spuffy fanficcy porn!

Anyway, here's a collection of drabbles of the different people and John. I had a few more planned, but as I said, I ended it badly, I had nothing left to give. Maybe I'll add more sometime in the future.

So here's Wolf in Sheep's Clothing - a very rough, written in about 30 hours this weekend, unbeta and unchecked as all my work is.

The usual bits - nothing is mine. I am merely playing with them and gaining nothing but peace of mind. Everything belongs to BBC, Sir A.C Doyle and all that jazz.

* * *

John lowered himself to the park bench. Life bustled around him, oblivious to the quiet little man in the thick brown jumper sitting all by himself in the rare sunlit day. Mothers, fathers and nannies all chided or praised their vibrant little charges along the gravelled paths, business people in their smart suits power walking while talking on ear pieces or staring importantly into the distance. Even the students, usually the figureheads of slacking off on such days, were all busy going somewhere.

John merely closed his eyes and leaned back into the warm sun, feeling it stroke his face and the wind ruffle his hair. He even tugged off his leather gloves and opened the neck of his shirt to enjoy the warmth as much as he could.

It was surprisingly quiet, out here in the crowded park. Well, quiet compared to the massive tantrum Sherlock was currently throwing back at the flat. John figured he had about 5 hours before he could head back to relative calmness and he was going to enjoy the rare day off. Especially on such a lovely day.

It wasn't until he had left the pub a while later that he noticed. He had spent a pleasant hour and a bit having lunch where he had consumed a delicious steak and kidney pie and a couple of pints for his lunch and was walking it off, when he noticed he had acquired a shadow of sorts.

Really. It was most insulting but these things must be borne with dignity, John thought. They weren't even trying to be secretive.

He ambled down the high street, occasionally glancing into shop windows now and then, subtly checking the man following him. Dark brown jacket, blue jeans, black boots – typical for a sunny day out and about in London.

Oh, there were 2. The glance his tail threw to the newspaper reading business man across the street. Hmm, things were getting interesting now. John almost smiled but turned it into an apology as he excused himself past an elderly woman with a walker.

Wanting to get to the action part, John stopped in front of an alley way and pretended to check over his shoulder whilst adjusting his pants in the subtle-but-obvious "need a pee" move before disappearing into the alley.

Once hidden by the shadows, he sidled up next to a skip bin and waited.

Didn't take long. Brown jacket stopped and waited at the mouth of the alley as though he was checking something on his phone. Business suit appeared talking into his phone and they both melted into the shadows at the entrance of the alley. A few moments later, a car pulled up and another 2 men clambered out. These were more the type you would see in a Bond film. No necks, squinty eyes. John nearly chuckled out loud at the thought. Was there a factory somewhere that made these stereotypical thugs?

All 4 made their way into the dark alley, eyes scouring the shadows. John stepped out of his spot of darkness, jiggling his trousers as though he had just zipped up after relieving himself in the fetid concrete hallway, like so many others apparently had.

"Oh.." John blinked confusedly. "Excuse me..." He hunched his shoulders slightly, as though embarrassed to have been caught and attempted to walk past the 4 men.

"I don't think so Dr Watson." At that, John halted and straightened, looking the four men dead straight.

Now, just an FYI - any of the soldiers in Watson's unit would have recognised that look.

Any of the soldiers in Watson's unit, upon seeing that look, would have felt their skin twitch.

Any of the soldiers in Watson's unit who had ever had that look directed at them, would have felt wetness trickle down their leg.

Unfortunately for these four, they had never had the opportunity to see this look before. All they saw was an older man, mid to late 30s, small statured, slightly stocky around the middle, dressed in something a TV Grandpa would wear, no-one that should raise any alarms at all.

Currently, this nondescript, no one of a man, was standing at parade rest, chin held up and steady, lips pressed together and looking completely harmless. His only visible worth was companion to the annoying nosy Detective. Easy pickings.

John stayed silent as the four men spread out to surround him. Brown jacket and Business Suit in front, while Stereotypical Thug 1 was to the left and Stereotypical Thug 2 was behind him.

Business Suit sneered menacingly. The only reaction from John was a single raised eyebrow. He didn't even glance over his shoulder at the two standing close behind him.

"Think you're a brave one hey? Well, I got news for you Doctor Watson, you're in a _bit_ of trouble." He smirked at John, leaning forward as though offering this as a confidence.

John merely cocked his head to the side slightly.

"Is that right?" John answered.

Starting to get a little put-off by the calmness of his victim, Business Suit cleared his throat and threw a bit more bravado into the situation.

"That's right Little Man. I have a message I want you to give to your boyfriend." He went to continue, only to be interrupted by John's frustrated sigh and watched as the completely unafraid man rubbed his forehead in irritation.

"He's not _actually_ my boyfriend, you know. I'm not _actually_ gay." John seemingly spoke into the air of the alley. "Not that anyone believes me." He added quietly, the slight frustration clear in his voice.

Business Suit could feel the situation slipping from his control. This wasn't how it went. By now, his victims were usually upset, some had even started begging not to kill them. But this one, he acted as though the whole thing was a slightly annoying inconvenience. He nodded to ST1. Time to get back control.

"Tell your boy-" he stuttered at the look he received from Doctor Watson but manfully continued " -um Holmes, to mind his own business or next time, he won't get "His Blogger" back again in one piece." As he finished, ST1 rushed from the side, grabbing John's arm, while ST2 threw an arm around the Doctor's throat to hold him. Brown jacket produced a flick knife while Business Suit stepped up, fist curling into formation.

John had reflexively grasped the throat crushing arm with his right hand whilst ST1 attempted to wrench his left arm behind his back, apparently attempting to use John's bad shoulder against him.

"Thank God- I REALLY needed this, mates!" Was all John said.

~8~

Later that night, John had managed to coax Sherlock out of his sulk long enough to eat a few bites of John's pad thai and now Sherlock was sitting hunched in his chair, like some demented vulture while John chicken pecked out his latest blog entry.

Sherlock was watching the news while muttering to himself. John had long ago learned to block out the random strings of deductions Sherlock made on a near constant basis when watching TV. So it took a few moments for John to realise that Sherlock was shouting at him.

"John! JOHN! Of COURSE! It wasn't just his nephew, it was also the nephew's closeted best friend and _his_ 'best friend'! That's how they were able to smuggle it all in! Lestrade would be able to get us into Bart's tonight to question them! Well, once they get out of surgery that is!" John watched as Sherlock jumped out of his chair and disappeared into his bedroom, his silk robe fluttering along behind him.

John leaned slightly to see the last of the news report showing the facial sketches of four men and then cut away to recorded footage of an alley where people were bustling around with stretchers and tape and lots of flashing red lights. A familiar alley. John humphed and turned back to his blog entry.

Moments later, Sherlock striding out, fully dressed and groomed. Not stopping, he grabbed his Belstaff and glanced at John enquiringly. John shook his head sadly.

"Sherlock, sorry mate, I have early shift tomorrow at the surgery and I'm knackered after the past few days. You go, not like you need me there anyway." John waved Sherlock away while he turned back to his laborious typing. Sherlock's laser gaze swung from John's sock covered toes to his face, studied him for a second and nodded.

"You are looking like you're in for the night John, maybe you shouldn't have spent so long out at the park and pub today. You have a touch of too much sun on your nose and your left knee seems a little swollen. Do take better care of yourself John." And with that, he swirled dramatically out of door of the flat and was gone.

John chuckled fondly.

"Git."

~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~

John came to slowly, his pounding head seeming to beat in time with the walls swaying. It took a few moments for John's mind to catch up and realise that the walls weren't swaying, it was him.

Hands tied together behind him and strung up over a pipe in the ceiling, his bare toes firmly on a small stool but not his heels. So just enough to keep him taut, not enough to actually slowly kill him if hung there long enough. He stretched to take the weight off his shoulders and felt the fire race along starved nerves and oxygen rush into deprived lungs. Okay, if he had been out any longer, that actually might have been the case. He could feel the pull of his shoulders as his arms stretched out and up behind him, but he pushed the pain away, focussing on the immediate situation.

He controlled his breathing as he looked around the room. Warehouse from the looks of it, basement level. Well and truly abandoned from the rubbish and graffiti all about. One day, he thought, he would be kidnapped by someone in The Hilton and be one of those trapped in luxury kidnappings where he could order room service and have long baths in a Jacuzzi. Shaking off the fantasy with a chuckle, John scanned the room, taking particular interest in the pipe holding him up.

Thankfully, whoever had knocked him out in the staffroom of the surgery when he was closing up, had left the lights on, giving John perfect opportunity to actually see what was what.

He was just about to test the strength of the pipe above him when the door across from him opened and a couple entered. Even with the two a good 20mtrs away, John could see that abandoned warehouses were not in this couple's normal lifestyle. Elegant clothing, expensive but subtle and well chosen but minimal jewellery spoke of Old Money and as they came closer, John could hear the cultured tones in their conversation. It immediately reminded him of Mycroft and Sherlock trying to out snob each other. John sniggered at the thought.

"And what, pray tell, is so amusing about your situation, Mr Watson?" The Willowy blonde 20-something woman archly asked her captive.

John schooled his features to a proper victim-y look and muttered a contrite "Nothing, nothing." After studying him for a few moments, the woman turned minutely to her companion, a slightly older brother from the familiar look about him. "Let's make this quick. I don't like this place." She delicately shuddered in disgust while never taking her eyes off John, her gaze cold.

John wondered if it was just him, or if she was always that cold. Another smile threaded through his mind, but nothing showed on his face, nothing to break the "victim cowed" look he had learnt worked best in these situations.

After a few moments, the similarly coloured male blinked boredly and looked away.

"You never liked it, hence why we are here." He smirked as he removed a phone from his pocket and fiddled with the settings for a while. She scowled but didn't respond.

John figured as they were openly doing whatever it was in front of him, that not watching would be the height of rudeness, and never being one to offend, he watched.

He listened as a pre-recorded altered voice spoke from the tinny speakers.

"Mr Holmes, This will be said once and Only once, so pay attention.' John mentally rolled his eyes. Did no one ever pay the slightest attention to what Sherlock actually did? 'We have John Watson. If you ever want to see him alive again, we want 100 thousand pounds in used hundred pound notes by 6pm tomorrow night. You will place the money in a black duffle bag and leave it under the last seat on the top deck of the Woolwich ferry on the last run of the evening. No Police or John Watson dies. Anything we don't like, John Watson dies. Neglect to pay, John Watson dies." The recording ended and the Blonde man fiddled around with the obviously unfamiliar phone before raising it up and taking a couple of photos of John tied up and hanging. The woman sighed harshly and snatched the phone out of her brother's hands.

"Oh for Christ sake Gerald, give me that!"

She strode the remaining 10 steps to John's side and cocked her head to the side as she studied John closely.

John blinked lazily and stared right back.

"Yeah, I wouldn't do that." He conversationally said to her. She merely smiled, the movement not warming her face in the slightest.

"You mightn't." She replied before swinging and slamming the phone into the side of John's face, causing his lip to split and blood to trickle down his chin. "Much better." She cooed.

"Ginny, really?" Her brother asked disgusted.

"Oh Gerald, you have never understood. Now is not the time to try to learn." She watched amused as the blood slowly trickled off John's chin and dripped onto his oatmeal coloured jumper.

John glanced down. "This is my favourite jumper you know. You do realise how hard blood is to get off of wool don't you?" He looked to the blonde, all dressed in pale winter colours, apparently this year's fashions if a recent ex-girlfriend was anything to go by. "Ah probably not. You don't look like the type who actually work for a living."

'Ginny' chuckled and leaned up to squeeze a little more red liquid from his lip. "Of course not darling. Never have, never will! Especially once we get your little detective friend off our trail and onto searching for his Poor. Missing. Friend,' she pouted fakely and fluttered her eyes like she was blinking back tears, 'we can get the rest of OUR money and be long gone before anyone realises!" She finished coldly.

With that, she stepped back and aimed the camera, getting a shot of John with his struck and bleeding face.

"Have to give him something to worry about, put his mind to other things, don't we?" She grinned cattily before turning to Gerald. "Now, we need some 'incentive' to worry the man. I can't risk him being as clever as they say he is, so we need to distract him." Gerald pursed his lips disgustedly. "Oh stop carrying on. You know that if he figures out the Bonds and money are hidden at Father's whore's place he'll beat us there, so we NEED to distract him for one more bloody day!"

She motioned for Gerald to come to her side. "And if he does figure it out, then killing Father and his whore would have been for nothing!"

Once Gerald reached her side by John, she directed him to start filming again as she placed her foot on the stool under his feet.

"Sorry Love, can't 'hang' around all day, must be off. Ciao!" and with that, she kicked the stool away from under John's feet. He could feel his shoulder immediately flare hot with agony as it was stretched to its damaged limits. And with his wrists tied behind him as they were, it put pressure on his shoulder joints, threatening to dislocate both at once.

The siblings stepped back, capturing the struggling, agony ridden man in the camera's viewfinder, the clicks of photos being taken echoed around the room.

John's world snapped down to just this immediate moment as he struggled to overcome the heart stopping agony. He vaguely noticed the couple talking and taking photos, but all his attention was on struggling to control the overwhelming pain. His mind remotely registered the sound of the door slamming shut and being alone as he slowly dragged the pain under control and shoved it away into a corner of his mind. Slowly, he was able to wrest back control of his spasming muscles and as he tightened each one, he forced his body up and up until he had his back running up alongside his arms. Wrapping his bare feet around the rope, he was able to hoist himself up enough to release the pressure on his chest and shoulders and gasped wildly as he was finally able to drag air into his desperate lungs.

After a few moment rest, he slowly worked his body up the rope until his feet were on the ceiling of the warehouse basement, the pipe between his legs. Pulling in a deep breath and wrapping the rope several times around his hands, John hauled on the rope and the pipe together until with a grinding crash, the pipe gave way, flooding the basement room with water. He pulled the rope free and grasping the pipe, let his feet swing down until it was safe to drop to the flooded floor. Once on the floor, he succumbed to his body's screams for rest.

After allowing himself only a short rest, it was a matter of a few more minutes before John was out of the warehouse and walking towards the spotlight of the closest streetlamp. Once there, he was able to spot the nearest rooftop camera and he waited as it slowly panned around. He knew he had been spotted when it stopped its rotation and fixed on him standing dripping wet, barefooted and hunched over in light of the streetlamp. It then took a short 10mins for Lestrade and Sherlock to reach his destination, the latter running in his haste to leave the police car and get to John's side.

Sherlock's hands grasped the sides of John's face, his piercing glance catalogued the various injuries and John knew the second Sherlock knew he was okay if a little walking wounded.

"Got a message huh?" He grinned at his tall friend. Sherlock merely stared frozen at his friend for a count of a heartbeat before John saw the minute relaxation of Sherlock's shoulders. His hands dropped and he stepped back a mere one pace.

"John, you must really stop getting so personally involved with my Work."

Lestrade squawked his displeasure at hearing that, but John and Sherlock merely chuckled. Lestrade shook his head and muttered under his breath about crazy sociopaths and not his division.

"Oh that reminds me! My friendly hosts!" John stated. That got Sherlock's attention and less than an hour later, both siblings were in custody and their father's 'retreat' was being searched by NSY's finest.

~8~

The next day John groaned as quietly as he could while standing under the hot water of the shower. His shoulder was in agony, the contortions from the previous day doing damage to the weakened muscles. He could feel the muscle all knotted but due to the hyperflexation he received to both shoulders, he was unable to massage his bad shoulder. So the shower was the best he could do.

Just as the water was threatening to run cold, John heard the bathroom door open.

"Sherlock! Privacy! A thing we spoke about!"

There was a pause before Sherlock's low rumble filled the steamy room.

"John, you require more attention than hot water. Come out and I'll massage your shoulder for you." And John heard the bathroom door whisper shut.

It took a few minutes for John to think it over, but the lure of Sherlock's offer overruled his usual response of no.

So it was that John found himself face down on the couch while Sherlock worked the knots expertly out of both shoulders.

The silence dragged on for only a few minutes before Sherlock's disgusted sigh.

"Really John! With my knowledge of the human body and the many years of violin playing, I have both the knowledge and dexterity to do something as simple as rehabilitation massage!"

John merely smiled into the couch cushions and settled down to enjoy this rare offer.

~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~

 _Trigger warnings for domestic violence in the next bit. Nothing overly dramatic, but better warn to be safe._

~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~

John crouched over the unconscious woman and quickly checked her vitals. Breathing was rapid and shallow and the blood on the back of her head was glistening in the dull light of the moon sneaking in through the crack in the window. Another body lay groaning a few feet away.

~8~

He had just been waiting for Sherlock and watching the old tenement building on the off chance the suspect would come here. Sherlock was certain that the apartment building where his mother lived would be the better option, but he couldn't be sure. Sentiment John! He had snarled at his friend as he pulled at his dishevelled curls. John had gently grasped his friend's hands before they could yank again at the innocent locks. You take the mother's building, I'll watch the other one. He had soothed his raging flatmate. Sherlock had studied John for long moments before sharply nodding his head, sending John on his way.

John had seen the suspect enter the building and when Sherlock didn't answer his phone, sent a text message saying he was going in and followed.

He had followed the almost silent sounds of stealthy footsteps and guarded breathing as the suspect led him deeper into the abandoned building which was slated for demolition in the next few days. Sherlock had felt that the mother's building was a much better choice as the suspect had wanted to regain control of the relationships and the money both had, after his girlfriend had broken up with him over his unhealthy control of his mother. Keeping the two women close and thus his easily controlled world together had made it seem the likelier choice. Apparently Bruce hadn't agreed.

John had quietly followed the wiry DJ as he snuck through the building until Bruce apparently reached his destination and started talking to someone.

"You shouldn't have said that about Mother, that was wrong and so it's your fault this happened. You can't expect to be so stupid and not be punished. But I know you are sorry, so we'll speak no more about it. Now, come and give your loving man a hug and kiss huh..." John strained to hear anything. He hadn't heard any other noises yet other than Bruce. But then a soft sob confirmed Bruce wasn't alone.

John's only reaction to the furious shouted that erupted from nowhere was a slight twitch of his left eye.

"I'M SPEAKING TO YOU, YOU DUMB BITCH!" The sound of something striking flesh filled the space and John forced himself to stay calm and quiet as he edged silently into the room. Bruce, almost 6ft and skinnier than Sherlock, had Betty his ex-girlfriend by the collar of her nurses uniform as he shook the now unconscious woman. He pulled her up to scream at her, spittle landing on the pale face and newly forming bruise on her right cheek.

John took one silent breath and stepped forward.

~8~

John stayed with the unconscious woman until EMTs arrived along with the police and Sherlock moments behind. He passed over the vitals and OBs and sunk down on the step outside the building as the ambulance raced away with the young woman. Sherlock hesitated a moment before sitting beside his friend wordlessly.

After a few moments John spoke.

"His Mum?"

Sherlock continued looking down the street as well.

"We were able to get to her in time as well. Minor injuries, bruises and the like... She will heal in time I am assured."

John nodded sharply, not trusting himself to speak.

Neither man looked over as the police led Bruce out, handcuffed to a stretcher, moaning and sobbing and swearing loudly. He was covered in blood, his nose obviously broken along with several major bones and bruising was starting to cover most of the man's skin where it showed through his clothes.

He looked over and saw John sitting by the curb and he screamed out.

"HIM! He's the one! He did this to me! He's insane! He's some kinda ninja demon! Out of the shadows and everywhere at once!" Bruce was becoming hysterical. John rose to his feet as he watched the man struggle now with terror. "NO! HE'S GONNA GET ME! HELP ME! PROTECT ME!"

By now, all the police force were watching the drama unfold. Bruce struggled violently against his handcuffs and the restraining hands of the emergency crew and police officers. Donovan strode forward.

"Wot, _him_?" She pointed with obvious disbelief at John Watson. Bruce flailed his head wildly, screaming to keep the demon away. Most of the police looked from the obviously not-quite-sane screaming man to the subdued man in a blood soaked jumper that had been tending the bleeding woman and shook their heads in disbelief.

Watson, a threat in ANY way? No. Sherlock maybe, they all had their suspicions there – Donovan being the most vocal but was not the only one by far, but Doctor Watson? Nah, never!

They finally managed to get the hysterical man into the ambulance and driven off and quiet filled the street as techs disappeared into the crime scene, leaving the two alone.

After a few minutes, Sherlock glanced down at his flatmate.

"Fell through the floor huh?"

John nodded and they started walking towards the police cars parked down the street a bit.

"It IS scheduled for demolition. Totally unsafe." Sherlock spoke again as he shortened his steps beside John.

John simply nodded again. The silence sat comfortably as they walked.

"Just HOW many times did he fall through the floor?"

John merely grinned.

"Oh, I lost count."

~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~

Mycroft was a proud man and, in his mind, for just reason. For someone who 'occupied a minor position', he had a quite prodigious reach and with that reach, used it all to protect his brother.

So when he had required a full dossier on one John Watson, he got exactly what he was wanting within a few hours.

So Mycroft felt confident when he said he 'knew' the man that orbited his brother's life like a satellite orbiting a moon, trapped in its pull. After all, the dossier only confirmed what his own, very considerable findings found.

It just happened one day, as Mycroft found himself watching some footage of an 'incident' on the border of Germany and Belgium. A hired retrieval team, "Mercenaries" Mycroft sneered, had been sent in after Mycroft's own team had been decimated by the well armed and obviously well connected arms dealer. Mycroft made a mental note to query his team on their ferret mission for the mole.

He watched the grainy footage while occasionally glancing at paperwork on his desk until something caught his full attention.

He motioned to the tech sitting across the desk and waited until the videofeed was rewound. It now had his full attention.

It showed a normal sort of everyday household open plan lounge room in any house you would walk into in London. The only difference was the large number of men in the room with high powered antipersonnel weapons on them and in boxes lining the walls. Men drank coffee, watched the TV, and made food in the kitchen – normal everyday things if you discounted the massive armoury around them.

Mycroft could tell the second some of the men – the more seasoned warriors Mycroft thought - sensed something was about to happen. Hands reached towards guns while eyes tracked the room and ears were turned towards windows and doors. But it was too late.

A split second later, a couple of flash-bangs lit then darkened the videofeed and Mycroft waited patiently as the camera slowly adjusted back into clear view.

In the ensuing 3.8 seconds, a team of 5 had entered the room by various means and were in the process of subduing the hostiles.

It was the one by the door that grabbed Mycroft's attention.

From the annoyingly bad quality of the video, Mycroft could make out only a few details – he was definitely of male stature, shorter than expected for a private retrieval team, his features hidden by the special forces level helmet and mask.

Mycroft watched as the video had cleared just in time to show the man slam his hand into the throat of the man guarding the door and followed it smoothly through by lifting and then slamming his gasping victim heavily onto his back on the floor. Mycroft could tell even through grainy footage and random static that the man's neck had snapped on impact.

The uniformed mercenary had dropped to one knee to complete the killing move. Instead of rising to his feet, the man calmly drew his pistol and took out 4 men in various parts of the room in quick succession while barely moving more than his arms. At one point, he leaned left, placed his hand on the floor and shot a man through the knee then through the forehead even before his target's head even hit the floor.

All in all, the entire incident took only 4 minutes and 14 seconds before all hostiles were neutralized. Mycroft's lips tightened as he watched the efficiency of this team and compared it to his own. Quite a lot of room for 'improvement', Mycroft thought sourly, making a note to question the recruitment and training his own teams were getting compared to the mercenaries he was watching.

Now came the part that had garnered Mycroft's attention in the first place.

The man stood and surveyed the now still room and Mycroft could see him headcount his own men and nod minutely as all were accounted for. Mycroft found himself leaning closer to the screen.

The man was motioning, obviously giving orders and then it happened.

He grabbed the bottom edge of his vest and tugged down sharply once. Then with a pat to the front lower pocket, he was striding off. But Mycroft twitched a finger at the tech across the desk and the video promptly rewound a few moments and replayed that very interesting 2 seconds of footage.

Nod, grab, tug, pat.

Nod, grab, tug, pat.

With just a glance, the elder Holmes very quickly found himself alone as the tech and other sundry staff quietly filed out of Mycroft's office.

He sank back into his chair and stared blankly at the wall, his lips pursed as he delved into his own mind.

After a long time, Mycroft blinked and shook his head. No. It couldn't be.

Pulling out his tablet, he logged through the security measures and pulled up a video he had, one of hundreds in storage.

It showed a cluttered room, with textured busy wallpaper, a steer skull on the wall and two men in various positions of relaxation. Mycroft pushed a button and doubled the speed.

It only took 19 minutes of speeded up video to find what had tripped the alarm in Mycroft's observant mind.

He watched as the two men conversed – the taller one flailed about the room, his blue robe fluttered behind him like broken wings, arms waved wildly, while another man sat calmly in his seat, reading a newspaper.

The taller man stormed up to the sitting man and in an obvious fit of pique, snatched the paper out of the other man's hands and vented his fury on it. Torn and scrunched up paper littered the room moments later and a stillness invaded the room as both inhabitants froze.

The seated man slowly rose to his feet, looked at the taller man and even through video Mycroft could read the fury on the smaller man's entire body.

Mycroft couldn't quite make out the words at this angle, but the effect on the taller man was extraordinary. His proud shoulders slowly slumped in and his dark curly head sank down in a dejected manner. The smaller man snapped into attention, hands by his side, head up, eyes forward, feet slightly apart and Mycroft could see the words falling sharply from his lips.

It seemed that whatever the taller man said back, had been accepted by the smaller one, who nodded sharply in response and pointedly looked at the paper mess. Mycroft's eyebrows rose as he yet again felt shocked at witnessing the tall man bend and tidy up quickly and then rush from the room, grabbing his long cloak as he left the flat.

The smaller man, remaining at attention for a long moment, seemed to gain control over himself. He sagged momentarily, both hands coming up to rub his face, before returning to his former attention pose. For a moment, it seemed as though the man would remain at attention, but he suddenly moved, as though coming to a conclusion only he knew.

He nodded once sharply, grabbed the bottom of his jumper, tugged it down firmly with one tug, then appeared to pat his stomach once, before spinning on his heel and disappearing into the kitchen.

Mycroft didn't need to replay that video. 

~8~ 

It wasn't often that Mycroft found himself at an impasse.

The date of the incident indeed coincided with a period of time that Dr Watson was absent from London to a supposed medical conference in Bristol for three days. But for all Mycroft's quite extensive powers, he could do nothing BUT place the good Dr at the medical conference on various incontinences and their new exciting treatments. Video feed from CCTV and private residences, from the hotel itself, showed the good Dr attending ALL the lectures and symposiums. Even the dinners and drinks. Even months later, the staff and locals interviewed by Mycroft's staff STILL remembered the friendly, jovial doctor from the sea of faces.

Everything placed the Doctor there and nowhere else.

It was infuriating!

On the night in question, Doctor Watson even managed to sweet talk one of the bar staff from the local pub into heading back to his room at the end of her shift. Video showed them entering his room, her giggling and him being the gallant gentleman. No one entered or left for the entire night, although there was one complaint from a neighbouring room about noise that ceased after a call was made at 9pm to politely rectify the issue.

Early the next morning, video showed a sleepy Watson kissing the languorous brunette as they parted at his door and the woman left with a dreamy smile on her face. Watson had watched as she waved to him at the top of the stairs and descended, returning the wave before appearing to chuckle and turn back into his room.

Normally, even the eagle eyed Mycroft might have missed it, it was so incredibly slight. But the ferociously focussed Mycroft caught it subconsciously enough to trigger him to stop and double check.

As Watson turned into his room, his eye closest to the hotel camera seemed to flick towards the camera.

Mycroft replayed the video.

There was no doubt in Mycroft's mind. Watson had unconsciously given away that he was very aware of the camera. So much in fact that Mycroft knew that the whole thing was a performance based solely for the camera. But for that one tell, there was nothing else that gave it away. Nothing else that was concrete proof.

It was not to be borne.

Finally, the unknown seeming to eat away at Mycroft's very mind, drove him to 221B.

He was seated in Sherlock's chair as John came down from his room, rubbing sleepily at the skin on his stomach between t-shirt and boxers.

John wandered into the kitchen and Mycroft heard the kettle being switched on and a mug being put on the bench when he heard a pause. He smiled to himself. Oh very clever John, he thought.

"Mycroft?" John head appeared around the doorway, blinking blearily at the elder Holmes. "Um, Sherlock's not here. He's still off in... Calais? I think on that case.. for you I thought? Tea?" Mycroft merely raised one eyebrow as he balanced his hands on his umbrella. John disappeared back into the kitchen as the kettle clicked off.

He waited until John was sitting in his chair, sipping on his tea before he placed a small manila folder on the coffee table. John merely repeated the gesture of a raised eyebrow.

"Not for Sherlock then?"

"No John."

"Hmm right then"

Neither man moved as John continued to sip at his hot tea.

But the weeks of researching and watching video feed, reading reports had made the elder Holmes twitchy. For anyone else, it was like jumping around the room screaming.

John stiffened at the so very slight movement then forcibly relaxed himself and leaned forward to flip over the front cover of the folder.

The only thing in the folder was a printed screenshot from a grainy video. One that showed an everyday household open plan lounge room in any house you would walk into in London. The only difference was the large number of men in the room with high powered antipersonnel weapons on them and in boxes lining the walls. Men drank coffee, watched the TV, and made food in the kitchen – normal everyday things if you discounted the massive armoury around them.

John was motionless for approx 3 seconds before leaning back into his chair and smiling slightly at Mycroft.

"What was it?"

Mycroft blinked. That was certainly not any of the top 18 responses he had anticipated when confronting the Dr with this.

"The man by the door tugged his vest down."

Johns' eyebrows rose, obviously surprised by the answer. He nodded thoughtfully, seeming to be going over the movement in his mind.

"Anything else?"

"You glanced at the camera in the hotel in Bristol."

"Hell Mycroft, I didn't think even **_you_** would have caught that!" John chuckled into his tea and stretched out his legs towards the lit fire. Mycroft was nonplussed. This was not going at ALL as he had anticipated.

"What?' said John laughingly, 'You thought I would deny it? Tell you that you are imagining things? Please. I have lived with your brother for 2 years and while I would NEVER even think this around him, we both know that you are the cleverest one, if only on applying what you 'deduced' if nothing else."

Mycroft sat back in the chair, stunned at the way this conversation was going. His mental file on one Cpt. Doctor John Watson was undergoing a vast restructuring.

After a few minutes of silence, where John allowed the elder Holmes time to reorganise his thoughts while he sipped his tea, Mycroft cleared his throat.

"Does my brother know?"

"God no Mycroft! The man's a menace as it is." John said with deep affection, "No one outside my unit knows, other than you now."

While John had said that in his usual vernacular, Mycroft heard the underlying warning clearly.

"But we both know just how good you are at keeping mum, don't we Mycroft."

It had been years since Mycroft had even been in a situation where he might be threatened, let alone actually feel the threat in the air that pressed against his very skin.

He merely raised an eyebrow at John for presuming, which John responded by smiling into his nearly empty mug.

Mycroft rose to his feet and nodded his head towards John as he scooped up the manila folder

"John"

"Mycroft" the laughter clear in the good doctor's voice.

As Mycroft opened the door, he turned back to look at the small, strangely nondescript fellow that everyone felt drawn to befriend, including Mycroft's isolated little brother. A man that had managed to hide so much from some of the world's most observant people, good and evil alike. Seemingly all just for Sherlock.

"John... thank you."

John merely nodded in response, already opening his newspaper and settling back into his chair.

Mycroft left the flat, content for the first time in his life that Sherlock finally had someone that cared for him as much as he cared for them.

~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~

Molly was a quiet person, studious and clever for sure, but she was definitely a quiet sort. She had been like that her whole life. And quiet people like Molly were often forgotten even as they stood there.

People _Always_ forgot about Molly. Little Molly. Poor Molly. Ignored Molly.

Sees Everything Molly.

When Molly was younger, she had wept into her grandmother's lap. "Why do they ignore me? Am I so unworthy?" she had sobbed.

Her Maa had hugged her granddaughter close and stroked her hair.

"Oh my wee lass, you 'ave a gift! A blessing from the Fae. For you can move amongst men and be unseen but see, listen to the Knowledgeable and hear but remain unheard, touch the sensitive and feel and be ignored. It is nae a curse, child, but a blessing!"

Molly, being the positive being that she truly was, took this to heart. While her Maa was right, in the way that all Knowing Elders are, Molly didn't have the heart to use her gift in the way most did nowadays. She couldn't bring herself to hurt or be the reason someone else was hurt. So, she used her gift in ways that could help. Her gift helped her to blend into the background when a family broke down upon receiving bad news. It allowed her to disappear into the shadows safely when walking home after a late shift at the hospital, only to reappear next to a grateful girl who was just starting to panic at being alone in the tube station.

It meant that she could drift away from Sherlock's laser sharp attention when it became too hard.

It also meant that she saw John Watson. She first saw him as Sherlock's new friend, a twinge of jealously always companied their arrival at her morgue.

When they first started coming around, Molly was unsettled to notice that John always knew where she was. It wasn't something she was used to at all. He always faced her, no matter where she was. He was always unfailing polite and friendly, if distant. For really the first time in her life, she actively tried to hide in the background. And he still saw her.

Oh, he didn't see HER, Molly as an actual PERSON with likes and dislikes. He saw her as Sherlock's 'Molly', someone Sherlock manipulated to get what he wanted. Molly overheard on many occasions John taking Sherlock to task over the way Sherlock treated Molly, but it was more out of a sense of decency rather than defending a friend.

And then he slowly responded to Sherlock's benign neglect of Molly as well. Slowly Molly saw herself sliding more and more into the background of his attentions. Just like everyone else.

The first time she realised that, she had been working on a 92 year old farmer who had been crushed under his prize winning bull stud, when it had slipped in the mud. The wiry old man had instinctively stepped out to catch the massive creature and had been pulled under when it fell to its side.

Molly was just finishing up the last of the stitched before she washed him for transport to the funeral home and had patted the gentleman's hair gently.

"On your way home now Sir." She had murmured softly and dropped some clasps into the sink at the side, causing a slight ringing bang to echo through the quiet morgue.

Both Sherlock and John had been at the far table, examining a supposed drowning victim and while Sherlock had merely twitched and looked at Molly in annoyance, John, standing behind Sherlock, had flinched and his hand had shot to the rear of his jacket. He had looked pissed when he realised it had just been Molly and from the look he shot her, she knew he had not even realised she had been in the room. Even though she had been in clear view of both of them the entire time they were there.

Molly had shaken off the startled response as merely that of a PTSD ex solider just returned from combat.

The next time got Molly thinking.

She had been in her office, doing the paperwork that continually threatened to drown her, when she heard John enter the lab on the other side of the corridor. She heard John and Sherlock chatting for a few moments, then the usual rude shout from Sherlock and the doors banging. She got up and wandered to the door and watched as John exited the lab and stood there as Sherlock's cloak vanished around the corner. John sighed and Molly could see the exhaustion on his shoulders – They were working a case that had been going on for nearly a week and both men were ragged now.

John stepped back a single step, nothing more than regaining a slight loss of balance as he dug his phone out of his pocket and typed a text message, but the step brought him within touching distance of Molly.

Feeling her own tiredness creeping up on her, she sighed softly, her lips parting only a hairs distance apart.

Molly didn't even see John spin. All she knew was that she was suddenly slammed up against the wall, John's small but exceedingly strong fingers wrapped viciously around her throat. Without even looking, she could tell he had managed to get his thumb and forefinger directly over both her carotid arteries, a move that was extremely difficult to make, especially that quickly. Most people going for the throat went more for oxygen based targets, not blood targets.

She looked him straight in the eye and swallowed pointedly, her thyroid cartilage moving against his hand.

With a horrified look, John thrust himself away, his hands up as though he was surrendering. She immediately grabbed her neck and coughed instinctively, even though John had not applied any real pressure. John stayed a step away, not wanting to scare the petite coroner any further, while attempting to assure them both that Molly was okay. She waved away his concern and eventually accepted his apologies, until finally, Sherlock's imperial summons pulled John away.

The next few meetings were uncomfortable for both of them, something Sherlock either didn't see or ignored except for one time when he merely said "John, no." Which caused John to pinch the bridge of his nose and grind his teeth in response.

But eventually, over time, Molly slipped back under John's impressive radar.

It was from there that Molly noticed all the things that no one else seemed to notice.

John always stood with the most dangerous person in the area in his sight while not leaving his back too open. When in the company of Lestrade and his team, that person was always Sgt Donovan, even over the suspect sometimes. When she came upon John somewhere, she noticed that he would always scan the room, his eyes pausing on exits and entries. Never routinely, never in any way anyone else might notice. If there were 'other' people there, he rarely did it, only on their entering or leaving. When in the company of others, he presented a smiling, gentle demeanour, chatty and friendly. Molly could see exactly why the women of St Barts talked so much about the cute Dr Watson.

When he was alone with Sherlock, she watched as they traded looks, neither ever quite catching the other in time.

The times Molly came across John on her own, he was almost as though he was another entirely different person. She once walked into the labs to find John staring at the board where Sherlock had written... yes the chemical composition of chlorine mixed with... was that cow manure? John was standing at parade rest she thought they called it. His hands were clasped and pressed to the small of his spine, his feet a few inches apart, his body straight but still somewhat relaxed Molly felt. He was reading the board with a quizzical look, his head tilted slightly to the left, a very slight grin on his face, as though he was reading a comic on the board and found it amusing in some way.

His mobile chirped and he answered it with a distracted "Watson."

Immediately, his entire body seemed to change. To Molly's eyes, it was almost as though it morphed into another body entirely. John straightened and seemed to gain an extra inch of height. His shoulders drew back and appeared to widen, while John's feet snapped together into attention. His very jaw seemed to square off.

"And your mother dyed it black."

Huh?

"Wrong number."

Oh, maybe...

"I have a canary."

No he doesn't! Molly had been over to the flat just last week, dropping off some peni for Sherlock and there certainly hadn't been any birds there then!

"Sorry Mate, you called a wrong number, ciao."

Ciao? Molly squinted at John in confusion.

John visibly relaxed as he hung up the call and pushed the phone back into his rear pocket, going back to look at Sherlock's writings.

After a moment, he pulled his phone back out.

"Hey Sarah, It's John. Yeah good, good. *chuckle* Listen, that conference you have been pushing me to take? Yep the abscess and wound care? You have worn me down, sign me up." *Pause* "Oh fine, yes I need the Sherlock Holiday," *laugh* "I only wish." *Pause* "The full 4 days is fine, thanks Sarah, sorry about the late notice. Yeah, see you tomorrow."

As John hung up, Molly sprung into action, dropped her files on the table in front of her and pretended to scramble to grab them, stuttering apologies to John, who, typically, had flinched at the noise after thinking he was alone.

It all came to a head, when Sherlock had been pulled from the Thames after being accidently hit by a truck when chasing a suspect. Molly had heard that the detective was still unconscious the next day and she knew that John wouldn't have left his friend's side.

So being the kind soul that everyone who knew her, knew her to be, she grabbed up some homemade muffins she had brought in along with a package from her locker. She then grabbed a cup of tea from the Maternity Nurses Lounge, which of course had the best tea in Barts, and snuck to Sherlock's door.

It had taken a while, but Molly had finally realised that John was special in the same way she was. He hid in plain sight. He was almost literally the wolf in sheep clothing. She had chuckled when that thought occurred to her, what with his propensity for wool jumpers. She had even bought him a new jumper ages ago, after she heard Sherlock and him rowing over the loss of a favourite one to one of Sherlock's experiments. But she had never had the courage to actually give it to him. Until now.

She quietly opened Sherlock's door and slipped in. She heard John's talking cease when the door quietly swished open, so she stuck her head around and waved the cup of tea like a white flag.

"I come bearing gifts." She almost whispered into the quiet room.

A small relieved smile crossed the tired face of John Watson and he motioned her into the room. She handed over the tea and muffins, accepting the surprised and fervent thanks and placed the package absentmindedly on the bed as she looked at the pale sleeping detective.

"How is he really?" She asked, daring to run her fingers over the long violist hands laying still on the bed.

John swallowed the tea with a sigh.

"Oh Christ I needed that!" He nodded his thanks again as he took another sip before answering. "He's going to be fine. He's exhausted on top of the accident, and the pain is not quite manageable, what with...' Molly nodded, understanding clearly, 'so sleep is best."

"But still stressful." Molly added on the words John left hanging. John smiled tiredly in response.

Molly let the silence gather as she settled in the chair on the other side of Sherlock's bed. Seeing the package reminded her and she gathered her courage.

Without words, she handed the package to John, who took it with a raised eyebrow.

"Just something I saw that I figured only you would appreciate and understand." With that cryptic comment, she watched as John unwrapped the luxurious dark brown jumper.

"Oh thanks Molly... it's really nice, but I don't understand..." He smiled politely while his hand stroked the soft warm wool. Molly smiled and nodded to the jumper, 'go on, look', her gesture said.

Standing up, John moved to the down-light under the bench and held the jumper up to examine it in the better light. The weave was exquisite. If Molly hadn't had a favour from the creator, there was no way someone on her pay-wage could have afforded even a sleeve. John turned the jumper from side to side, trying to see what Molly had meant.

"Molly, it really is stunning, I can't accept this, this must have co..." Molly saw as the light hit the weave at the hem just right and the feature of these jumpers became clear.

Incorporated into the weaving at the hem was a scene of a small herd of stylized sheep, three of them. Just in front of them was another stylized form. At first glance it looked like another sheep, but on closer view, it was a wolf covered with the wool of a sheep. All the same colour, it was like those magic eye books, where you could only really see it if you knew it was there.

Molly flushed as John lowered the jumper to look over Sherlock's bed. She offered a small smile and her heart relaxed its wild thumping as he slowly returned it.

With a sigh, John drew the jumper over his head and settled it down. Smoothing it with his hands, his grin became warmer.

Finally he chuckled.

"It's lovely Molly, thank you." He glanced at her through his eyelashes, and Molly shook her head at his blatant attempts at flirting with her.

"Oh you can knock _That_ off." They both chuckled.

She watched as his fingers played with the wolf on the hem.

"Wolf huh?"

"Yup. You see John, you aren't the only one who can hide in plain sight you know. You're not THAT special, no matter what his highness here thinks." She giggled at John's assessing look. "Oh no, I couldn't do what you do, what I _think_ you do." She paused to look at him and got an innocent look in return. "But I know what's it's like to hide where everyone can see." Her cheeks flushed and she looked at her twisting fingers.

"I was asked once, you know, to do ... stuff. I couldn't, I'm not that strong." She frowned at herself, not liking the feeling that she was apologising for something. John frowned too.

"Molly, never apologise for being yourself. Never." He looked at her, frowning until she nodded in response. "Molly, my life is... complicated and definitely not meant for everyone. I honestly say the thought of you doing some of what I do... it's a little horrifying honestly." Molly nodded. She had her suspicions and if the recruitment officer had been even half right, she was definitely sure John was speaking the truth. John broke the sobriety by smiling widely.

"But it definitely makes a few things more understandable. I always thought I was slipping when you snuck up on me!" They shared a laugh and chatted for a while before Molly had to leave.

Sherlock thought their ongoing prank of attempting to startle the other was juvenile at best. When Molly squealed and dropped the tray of kidneys for Sherlock because John had stepped out from behind a cupboard and tapped her shoulder, he verbally eviscerated them. When John slammed the door in Sherlock's face because Molly had snapped a rubber glove at him from the supply closet, Sherlock had stormed from Barts, completely forgetting his bag of patellae.

But for all his portrayed annoyance, Molly often saw a gleam of affection in his eyes when he watched them banter and she knew that finally, she had friends that saw her too.

~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~

Mrs Martha Hudson loved her boys. She loved the vibrancy and passion that Sherlock had for his work. She loved John's steadiness and care of Sherlock.

She loved that they brought life back to her old bones, even if most of the time it was vicariously. Which honestly at her age and with her hip, was definitely the best choice.

Coming and going at all hours, and what that boy did to her table and floors! If she didn't love those two, they would have been out on their ears long ago!

But she did and that was a fact.

It had started all those years ago when Sherlock 'helped' her with her little situation and then got her back home. Then, when Sherlock had shown up again one day for a cuppa and deduced that the couple in the flat above were going to break up and move out, she didn't disbelieve him at all. If he said that, well then, he must have had a reason. She had stopped trying to be friendly to them 2 days after they moved in, snobby sort you know, but they were quiet and paid their rent on time, so she had no real complaints.

Sherlock had come in for a cup of tea and some scones hot from the oven, when hearing the front door shut softly, sprung from his chair and hurried out of Mrs Hudson's kitchen.

Martha hurried after Sherlock and got to the entrance way when she heard Sherlock's deep voice.

"...surely you must have wondered about the restraint marks on his wrists! A blind man with a cold could have seen them!"

"Right, I'll have you, you bastard!"

Martha was just thankful that the umbrella stand and front hall table were the horrible ones she had received from her brother's nasty piece of work wife and she could now happily replace them with something nicer. She did make Sherlock take the remains to the bins though. She wasn't his cleaner you know.

She sat back in her kitchen, sipping her fresh cup of Earl Grey whilst Sherlock held a bag of frozen peas to his nose.

"Mrs Hudson, now that your tenants will be moving, the flat will be vacant."  
"Hhmm, yes dear." Martha nodded obligingly.

"My current situation means that I am requiring a new residence."  
"Oh dear, that's unfortunate. Will you be staying with Mycroft then Sherlock?" She twittered into her tea at the look she received from Sherlock. She leaned over and patted his hand as it lay on her table. "Sherlock, I'm not stupid, despite my age' she held her hand up as Sherlock looked affronted at the thought, "the flat is yours of course." Sherlock smiled slightly and inclined his head at her in a short nod.

Martha paused then delicately added.

"Will it be just you dear?" as she sipped her tea. The look on Sherlock's' face was worth it, she felt. Oh she does enjoy Sherlock.

"Apparently not! Mycroft has insisted that I am to move back to the House, which is insufferable Mrs Hudson! I cannot live with that fat spider and all his minions!"

"Sherlock!" Martha slid her cup onto its saucer. Sherlock raised a brow at her angry exclamation and bowed his head once in apology.

"As it stands, I refused so he has cut access to my trust-fund so I will be looking for a 'and here he sneered, ' _flatshare_."

As much as Sherlock had moaned about having to have a flatshare, Martha knew he didn't regret it for a second. And neither did Martha Hudson. Not only had it brought Sherlock fully into her life, he had also brought John as well. She felt so blessed! She never thought at her age that she would have sons to care for and thanks to Sherlock and John, she finally did! Even if Mrs Turner next door didn't think Martha got anything in return. It was enough that she loved them.

It didn't matter if they never did anything for her.

~8~

John gritted his teeth as he walked back from Tesco's. Cash, he will definitely be only using cash from now on! No more bloody pin and chip machines for him.

He stomped up the stairs to the flat, knowing that he wouldn't have to say a thing about what happened thank god. He wouldn't even have to live the humiliation for the 1 minute Sherlock would harp on about it before he lost interest completely.

Sherlock was out of town on a case, and John couldn't miss any more work at the surgery so he remained behind.

So far it had been bliss. He had tidied the flat, gotten his washing done and he even managed a full night sleep which hadn't happened in a while. It was calm and tidy and serene.

But the quiet now was not the same peaceful quiet from when he left to go to Tesco's an hour ago.

That quiet had been dust drifting slowly on sunbeams, and fridges humming happily and Mrs Hudson's shows muttering softly in the background, while traffic buzzed mutely outside. In its place was a hard silence, a waiting silence. The kind that made the hairs on the back of one's neck quiver.

John stood three steps into the living room, his eyes automatically tracking the room and all his senses started their rundown.

Everything came back as nothing in the flat. No one had been in here since he left, he knew that.

Dropping the shopping bags silently as possible, he spun and made his way up to his room and retrieved his gun. And still the silence pulled at his instincts. He was down both flights of stairs and was outside Mrs Hudson's door before the swirling dust motes dancing in a sunbeam of the flat had stopped swishing wildly.

Statue still, John held his ear close to the door jam, making sure his shadow and feet remained away from the crack under the door.

Where he should have heard her midday shows that he had once joined her for, now all he heard was shuffling of feet and harsh breathing. He could hear drawers being opened and contents being dumped out and furniture being shoved out of the way.

He eased back and noiselessly left 221 Baker Street.

Martha sat in one of her kitchen chairs, her feet strapped to the wooden legs and her hands tied to the arms.

She was not too proud to say she was scared. Very scared. She had been watching her daily shows when someone tapped politely at the front door. With Sherlock away and John gone out, she had answered the door, thinking it a new client for the boys.

Instead, she had opened it to a face she hadn't seen in many years. Not since she shook the US dust from her feet and landed back on UK soil.

Now, here she was, tied to a kitchen chair as they trashed her little flat and her with no hope of rescue. The boys out, Mrs Turner off visiting her daughter and the Married Ones working double shifts all week... she choked back a sob. Poor Sherlock! Everyone said he was unfeeling, but she knew he just guarded his heart very closely. She only hoped that John would be able to look after Sherlock after this was all over. She had made sure that her boys were okay when she passed on, only she never thought it would be this soon!

A shadow falling over her pulled her attentions back to the present moment.

Frankie G, one of her husband's underlings, stood in front of her smiling a nasty little smile. Last time she had seen him, he had just been sentenced to 64yrs in prison for a string of offences, all of them while working for Stan Hudson. How he was here was baffling.

"So Flossie, long time, no see yeah?" Martha pursed her quivering lips and stayed silent. "Now now, don't be like that. We were friends once." Martha looked away, unable to face a past she had tried hard to forget. Frankie lent in and grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him.

"Okay, be like that, but I will have that money, you sneaky bitch. Think you could do that to Stan and take off with all the loot? Nah!" He creepily stroked a finger down the side of her face and she shuddered, causing Frankie to laugh. "Give us the numbers and I promise, we'll leave nice and quiet like. For old time's sake. "With that, he threw his head back and roared with laughter, his gold fillings flashing in his mouth.

He patted her on the shoulder and after one last querying look, shook his head in mock despair.

"Oh Flossie, it breaks my heart to hit an old woman, it truly does." He leant down close and whispered into her ear, "Doesn't mean I won't."

Straightening up, he yelled over his shoulder.

"Anything yet?"

"Nah boss, gonna check out the old bints room now."  
"Hurry up!" Frankie snarled back before settling down in the chair opposite Martha's.

The quiet stretched on, with only sounds of destruction drifting to the kitchen and when Martha Hudson glanced at her capturer, she had a shiver run down her spine. This wasn't going to be good.

John made it around the side and leaning over the bins, peered into the kitchen window. His heart slammed with relief at seeing Mrs Hudson alive and in her own kitchen, but not a single sign of it showed outwardly.

He scanned her with a doctor's eye and catalogued the injuries. Nothing major, although for an elderly frail woman, anything could turn major in an instant.

He scanned the man across from her who was proceeding to place his Italian made shoe on Mrs Hudson's chair – right between her legs! – and rocked the chair backwards. John felt his upper lip twitch as Mrs Hudson grasped her rocking chair in fear and the man laughed.

When the man turned to yell at someone else in the flat, John got a good look at his face and after a few moments thinking, placed the man. Hmmm, the past never stays in the past, John thought.

Oh he knew. As soon as Sherlock had told him how he and Mrs Hudson met, John had looked it up as soon as he was able to.

He also knew that Mrs Hudson wasn't going to be walking out of this situation. He pulled away from the window.

Frankie went to the door as one of his henchmen shook his head. They whispered and Martha felt a chill go down her spine.

"Look, Frankie, I don't have anything. I lost it all to the government when Stan got arrested. They left me with nothing." She whispered bravely, her voice wavering at the look of disgusted disbelief on the felon's face.

"Flossie, Flossie, Flossie. A broad like you and a place like this? Don't believe it for a minute. I asked about you. A place on Baker Street in London? It's an easy million pounds, so don't gimme shit."

He advanced to Martha's side and without warning, backhanded her across her face. The hit was hard enough to feel like her cheek just exploded, not hard enough to tip her over. Martha didn't know if that was a good thing or not as she nestled her face protectively into her shoulder and smothered the sob.

Frankie looked at his minion.

"Get upstairs and check out the other apartments. The detective bloke and his boyfriend are off on some trip and there is no one else 'ere." The man nodded and disappeared and Martha heard her flat door slam shut. There was a faint banging sound a few seconds later but Frankie couldn't hear anything else so just shrugged. Glancing at his captive and smirking, he went to her fridge and started taking out the makings for a sandwich.

"I'd offer you some, but you know... you're not gonna need it where you're going, hey." He laughed and shoved a pickle in his mouth. Martha shuddered at the sight of pale yellow pickle juice dribbling down his chin and looked away.

They sat there in silence as Frankie continued to stuff his corpulent face with Martha's groceries while they listened to the other two rip apart her flat. As each one finished, Frankie sent him upstairs to the boys flat. The door would slam shut and then footsteps on the stairs, then banging as they entered the flat.

It was only after a while, once Frankie stopped stuffing his face, that they realised that they hadn't heard from any of the three men.

Frankie swore. With a look and a chuckled "Don't go nowhere now lovie." to Martha, she heard him head out to the stairs.

"Oi! You fuckers done up there yet or wot?"

Silence.

"Goddamn lazy assholes." Martha heard as she heard Frankie stomp up the 17 stairs.

Then she heard a scream. She would have sworn on the blessed bible itself that her heart stopped right then and there. Not a scared scream or a shocked scream, but one she heard a long time ago in her other life. A scream of pain.

Then a rumbling crashing sound. Oh, she knew THAT sound - the sound of a body falling on her stairs. She tried to lean forward to see out her kitchen, but the angle was just that little bit wrong.

She didn't have to wait long.

Frankie suddenly appeared in the doorway and with what looked like a stumble, tripped and fell at her feet. That she moved immediately away.

"Mrs Hudson, oh my god are you okay?"

She burst into tears at the sight of her John stepping over the sobbing Frankie and crouching at her side.

"There there, don't take so, we'll fix it all up, okay?" She nodded weepily and John comforted her as he cut the ties from her wrists and ankles with a very professional looking knife.

With a quick check over, he patted her hand.

"Other than a few bruises and nicks, you're okay Mrs Hudson. How do you feel?"

"Oh John, much better you're here now. Should we call that nice Lestrade?" As she looked at the still crying Frankie at her feet. "Whatever did you do to him John?" She asked curiously. John just looked at her, a flash of pride in his face at her composure.

With his shoe, he shoved the crying Frankie onto his back and Martha could see the bloody pant leg he was clutching.

"Ah, knee cap." Martha nodded and rubbing her aching wrists, stepped over Frankie and started the kettle boiling. "Well, are we calling the nice detective or dealing with this in-house John?" She asked, **almost** calmly. She WAS still shaken up – after all she wasn't as young as she used to be.

John chuckled darkly.

"In-house I think Mrs H. If you will excuse me?" Martha nodded and Frankie started wailing

"Flossie, I mean Martha, love, don't let him. Come on, I was only joking like! Please Martha! Think of Stan!"

"Oh I am dear. In fact, you should be thanking your lucky stars that _Sherlock_ ISN'T here. The last man that hit me ended up in my bins!" With a gasp, she turned to John. "Not my bins dear, please? I only just replaced the last ones Sherlock ruined!" Frankie screamed in terror as John grabbed his other leg and started out the kitchen.

"No worried Mrs H, I'll not bugger up your bins. But can you give Mycroft a call? He owes me one and can deal with the ...aftercare." He winked to Martha and then pulled his face still as he looked at Frankie.

Martha nodded and put three cups on her tea tray and reached for her mobile. After all, Mycroft never could refuse her scones. As she placed the call, she thought of something.

"John, mind the rug! I just got it cleaned!"

"Right you are Mrs H!" Thump thump thump.

Really, those boys were hell on her stairs.

She spoke to Mycroft and asked him if he could please send over a couple of ambulances, no no, Sherlock hadn't killed anyone – he was away remember? no no, no one was dead, just a little... scuffed. Mycroft assured her that help would be on its way and excused himself.

Martha Hudson set about making fresh tea and scones, humming softly, tidying up her destroyed kitchen, while overhead, squeals and cries and begging apologies drifted down the stairs.

And whoever said her boys never did anything for her?

~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~

It was Sherlock's turn to wake up in a dark place with a thumping head and his hands tied behind his back.

He grimaced as he twisted his wrists to test the ties. Damn! Zip ties and his wrists had no wriggle room. He tried to stretch to his shoes to grab his hidden blade, but found that his hands and feet were strapped to... ah yes, rings in the concrete floor. So no movement there then. Thankfully he still had his shoes on, which meant the tracking bug John had insisted on would still be there. After the 3rd time John had been snatched, he had insisted that these were necessary and now Sherlock was agreeing with him.

He could tell from his internal clock that a few hours had passed since he was jumped and overwhelmed at the back of the club they had been staking out. John had been inside and Sherlock had supposedly been watching the front door, but when he had seen the suspect slip around to the alley, well, he had to follow, didn't he!

He blinked as the pain in his head throbbed enough that his vision darkened. Not a good sign, he thought.

When he had gotten around the corner, he had been met with a punch to the ribs and from there, several men had proceeded to beat the crap out of him until he was knocked unconscious.

Now here he was, tied up on a concrete floor, with what looked like a concussion and... yes at least one broken rib if not 2 and a scattering of other injuries. He shivered as the cold seeped into his damp clothes. He had to hurry up and get out of these ties – he would not do well to get ill here. He started working on his bonds.

He realised that he had yet again passed out when he awoke to find that he was now sitting upright, strapped to a metal chair, in the middle of a small room. No, not a small room, a meat storage locker from the staining on the floor and faint smell of old blood and coolant. A tall lamp stood in the corner throwing bright light and dark shadows with its yellow illumination.

"He's awake." A voice manner-of-factly stated. Sherlock watched as the empty door filled with the body of the suspect he had been following. Oh, this was not good. He had been following a suspected serial killer who had been leaving parts of the victims in school playgrounds.

With a nod, the suspect stepped aside and the voice from outside the coolroom stepped in and with Sherlock's own flick knife, cut the shirt from his body.

Very Not Good.

Sherlock opened his mouth to deduce the suspect standing before him, but before he could utter a word, a punch to his damaged ribs caused all the air to escape in a wheezing scream. Before Sherlock could suck in another breath, duct tape was strapped messily across his mouth and one ear.

"Oh no Mr Holmes. No talking for you." The suspect whispered in his ear.

Sherlock felt a shiver of fear claw his spine.

Shit.

~8~

John was frantic. Stupid to have believed Sherlock would have waited for him. Stupid! He punched at his phone's screen and resisted the urge to smash it on the street in front of him. 2 hours Sherlock had been missing. 2 hours in the hands of an extremely sadistic murderer was about 1hour and 59 minutes too long!

He swore in relief as the tracking bugs in Sherlock's shoe and coat both suddenly registered on his phone. Both were at the same point, a relief there.

He immediately forwarded the information to Mycroft as he knew that THIS phone was unhackable by Mycroft's minions.

He had made it to his safe house and had already pulled out his pack that was hidden in the wall cavity in the bare bedsit. Strapping on the knife and other weapons, he tossed the paper thin Kevlar vest on and threw his jumper over the top.

His phone pinged and he looked down. He knew exactly where that location was. He could be there in 12.9 minutes.

He made it in 7.

Mycroft hadn't gotten there yet, so John scoped out the building. A run of shops – a grocery store specialising in Indian foods, a hairdresser and a butchers. All were closed at 7pm, so they were all dark. John crept around the back and there! Light in the butchers.

It was almost stupidly easy. Then again, John had noticed long ago, the bigger the ego, the bigger the sense of impenetrability. The fact that so many believed what they saw – small slightly tubby man in grandpa jumpers = harmless, meant that John nearly always had the advantage immediately. And this was no different.

John walked up to the back door and 'accidentally' knocked over some steel bars, making sure that they made a right racket as they tumbled down.

In minutes, he was standing in the back room of the butchers. A thin man was holding a gun to the side of John's throat and his hands were zip tied together behind his back. Another man who stood by a walk-in fridge called over his shoulder without taking his eyes off John.

"Boss, the other one's here." With an identifying nod in John's direction.

A muffled wheeze followed a dull thumping sound and their suspect walked out of the fridge wiping bloody hands on a rag. John's heart froze at the sight. Noticing that John's attention had been diverted, the suspect chuckled.

"Oh yes, I do apologise for my appearance. Your friend is a bit of a bleeder, isn't he." John forced himself to not show a single muscle twitch at that. But he must have because a laugh flowed towards him.

"Oh don't get your panties in a bunch, we'll get you with your love in a moment." A head nod and John was shoved into the small walk-in.

Sherlock sat slumped in a metal chair, hands tied behind him and feet together. A rope tied his ankles to his hands from under the chair up the back so that Sherlock had no movement at all. Blood flowed freely from several gashes on Sherlock's forehead and his bare chest was covered in shallow cuts as well. Blood had pooled under the chair and was slowly seeping its way to the drain in the corner.

John concentrated on breathing calmly. As he watched, Sherlock's chest moved subtly and John relaxed a micron as he registered that Sherlock was still alive. But he could feel the rage building and knew he had to tamp it down.

Sherlock lifted his head slightly as though fighting unconsciousness and John saw the bloody soaked duct tape. Right. Enough was enough.

He set his feet and watched out the corner of his eye. Suspect was standing at the door, apparently enjoying watching the reaction from John. Evil Minion 1 was still behind John, gun pressed firmly against the left side of his throat. Good. Evil Minion 2 was still outside the walk-in like a good little guard dog. This should be quick.

With a snap of his wrists, John freed his hands from the zip ties, reached up and grabbed the gun. He leaned back an inch and shot the suspect in the shoulder. Without stopping to watch the suspect spun and slam into the wall, he yanked EM1 arm forward until he heard the shoulder pop and the scream. Still holding EM1's arm, he spun around further dislocating the shoulder to the point where he was pretty sure all the muscles were now sheared off. He slammed the palm of his hand into the centre of EM1's chest and heard a satisfying cracking sound as the rib cage gave way to the hit. The scream cut short as EM1's diaphragm suddenly collapsed. Letting EM1 fall to the floor, John spun back around in time to dodge the bowie knife heading down towards his back. He simply helped it continue its arc and imbed itself in the bowels of EM2. He grimly looked right in EM2's face as the look of surprised horror crossed it. With a twitch, John drove the blade higher then stepped back as EM2 collapsed as well onto EM1.

Without a word, he advanced on their serial killer suspect.

Sitting gasping against the walk-in wall, the suspect held their bleeding shoulder.

"Well well. Didn't expect to see one of my kind here." The suspect cackled softly before grunting from the jarring it gave the bleeding wound.

"I'm not one of your kind." John said calmly. "I'm not completely insane." He squatted down and reached over to press a finger to the bullet wound. "Yet." A scream told him that he had gotten the cluster of nerves there so he pressed again.

He only stopped when the gasping breaths told him that the pain was going to cause a blackout and he didn't want that. Yet.

He stood and looked down at the bleeding figure.

"I'm also not a desperate old hag looking to reclaim some bullshit lost youth." The woman looked up and sneered.

"Oh fuck off. I wasn't doing any such thing. You men. All you want is for us to look fuckable and when we no longer meet that requirement, we're tossed aside. Well, there's 6 men who won't be doing THAT again in a hurry." The beautiful blonde woman lying at John's feet chuckled. "And your friend won't look so pretty anymore either. Now he's a freak AND ugly as fuck." She laughed at the thought of her victory. But one look at John's face and it stuttered away. John leaned in.

"One – he will always be beautiful and wonderful and brilliant to me. Two – I wouldn't fuck you with either of their dicks,' and he pointed over his shoulder at the pile of dead or dying, he didn't care, 'let alone even think about anything else." Rage crossed the beautiful woman's face, turning it as ugly as she was inside. "But you don't have to worry, you won't be around long enough for it to matter."

She spat in his direction and laughed mockingly.

She stopped laughing though by the time John pulled his knife from his boot. Fear crossed her face as he coldly stared down at her as he reached up and ripped the shirt from the bullet hole down to her waist.

As the knife touched her breastbone, she squealed in fear.

"I THOUGHT YOU WEREN'T ONE OF US!"

She screamed as the knife kissed her skin, leaving a trail of red to trickle down between her perfect breasts.

"I did say 'Yet'." John whispered.

It was the whispered "John" that did it. He pulled the knife away just as he reached her soft point where he would have driven the sharp blade home. But the soft voice, faint and wobbly, was enough to pull him back.

Instead, John slammed the hilt of the knife onto the woman's skull, knocking her out and he watched with a slight sense of disappointment that he hadn't just ended it there and then.

But he turned away and strode the two steps to his friend's side.

"Sherlock, hold on." And he pulled the duct tape off the rest of the way. Sherlock had rubbed the tape on his shoulder and with the glue compromised by the blood, it had come straight off.

"John, don't. You're better than that, you ..." Sherlock didn't have the strength to finish his sentence, but John knew what his clever flatmate was saying. He nodded and set about freeing his detective.

Once John had freed Sherlock, he was just helping him up out of the chair when there was scrambling outside and shouting as Mycroft's men finally made it to the rescue.

It was later, back in the hospital, that Sherlock was finally alone with John. As the lights dimmed around the wards and silence crept over the quiet midnight ward, Sherlock dragged himself out of the drug induced sleepiness and looked towards his friend.

John quirked an eyebrow back, wordlessly asking yes?

"The whole time?"

"On and off, but yes."

Sherlock thought hard, his fingers pressed against his lips in his thinking pose. His thoughts were muggy and slow and he cursed the drag the drugs had placed on his mind. He came back to the room when he felt his hands being gently tugged down and away from his face.

"Sherlock, don't. Don't do that. You may have 'missed' a few things, but they were things I have been hiding for so many years, that I no longer have to hide them. Do you understand?"

Sherlock looked at his friend and slowly nodded.

"And besides, we both know that you knew. You did." John patted Sherlock's hands and then sat back in his chair. Sherlock flicked through recent memories. He cocked his head to the side and stared at John.

John just shrugged.

"I always figured you knew, to be honest. You would always deduce my dates, good or bad. You always pointed out when the shopping had gone badly. Yet you never commented on when I came home with a bite mark on my knuckle, or the time I came back from the convention with a sprained knee. " Sherlock smiled at that memory. John had claimed he had tripped on someone's poodle and while he actually had – he hadn't been lying about that – he hadn't explained it was because he had just broken into the owner's WW2 bunker and hadn't realised the man had been breeding illegal poodles in it.

They sat in silence for a while.

Sherlock spoke. "Well, that explains the new rug Mrs Hudson was going on about last month."

John laughed.

"I tried not to get blood on it, but, in my defence, he wasn't a very good man."

In the quiet after their shared laughter, Sherlock fidgeted and then cleared his throat.

"John, just... just be...ahem.. thank you."

John leaned forward and grasped Sherlock's hand.

"Always Sherlock."


End file.
